


Morozova's Collar

by snarkydarkling



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, I'm writing this for the greater good, bc it might be smutty idk, everyone will read this and laugh i know it, i can't believe this doesn't exist already, i hope leigh never finds this bc then i'd DIE, im laughing AT MYSELF for even writing it, oh god i can't believe I'm actually writing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkydarkling/pseuds/snarkydarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Darkling has many things to teach his little Sun Summoner. Alina proves to be an apt pupil.</p><p>(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ...and then kinky sex ensues!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, I'm not the only one that thought there was some kinky subtext in their relationship right? You can't have a massive control freak, a naive submissive girl, and a collar in the same story without some kinky subtext, right? RIGHT?
> 
> Now that I'm sufficiently mortified I even wrote this, I'm going to pitch myself off a cliff. Bye.

She felt the heavy weight of it resting around her neck at all times; an eternal reminder that she was his and always would be.

She’d tried to convince herself that it was just a pretty necklace, his gift to her. From the way the other Grisha looked at it longingly, she almost thought it was true. But every night, he would make her stand in front of his mirror and show her it was nothing but an extension of his hand, holding her like a puppet.

A collar.

The kind you put around a dog or a slave.

The corners of his mouth would turn up a little whenever he caught sight of it, silently mocking her. She was the fury of the sun reduced to mere candlelight in his hands. When he’d marched the Unsea south to Shu Han and north to Fjerda, he’d pulled her close and whispered to her, his tone condescending and sardonic, “Good girl.”

These two words were the only thing that mattered to her anymore. She’d watched Mal die, torn apart by the volcra. She’d watched the King and Queen ripped from their thrones, the princes disappearing into the night. She’d watched the whole of Ravka and beyond, slowly and reluctantly bend their knees to the tyrant before her.

Thinking of Mal, of his kind eyes and steady hand, was something Alina avoided as much as she could. The sharp ache of pain that went through her at his memory was worse than anything the Darkling could ever do to her.

So she put away the pieces of her old life, tried to convince herself none of it had ever happened. The Darkling had stripped away everything she’d ever known and loved. She was under his thumb, but his touch filled her with surety and calm---the only solace that was left to her in this new world. From now on, she was the Darkling’s pawn, his slave, his pet.

Absently, she touched the collar and smiled.


	2. Little Saint

**i.**

 

It started out with little bargains. 

She had very little freedom at the Grand Palace where he’d built his fortress. The Darkling kept her close to him, bringing her along during his council meetings, putting her sleeping chambers beside his, and setting his personal guard to follow her wherever she went. He told her she was precious, that he wanted to keep her close. She smiled gently and pretended his affection and attention had nothing to do with her power.

She wanted to go for a walk around the palace grounds with Genya but she knew it was not that simple. She was not allowed to leave. She would have to bargain.

The Darkling was in his study, sitting in a chair with an ankle crossed over his knee and an emptied glass of vodka. The dim light cast sinister shadows on his face. He didn’t look up at her as  she stepped into his view. She waited quietly for him.

“Speak,” he said, his voice cold as ice.

“May I please go for a walk outside with Genya?”

His expression changed from boredom to amusement. “And why would you need to go for a walk, Alina?”

“I just needed some fresh air. I haven’t spent much time with Genya either.”  _ Because you’ve been keeping us apart _ , she thought bitterly.

“If you want to walk with Genya,” he said dangerously, “you can do it inside the walls of the palace.”

He watched her carefully and Alina held his gaze until his eyes wandered down to the collar at her neck, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

“It’s not fair,” Alina said slowly, wishing she didn’t sound so much like a pleading child. “Everyone else in the Palace is free to go where they want. It’s just for one afternoon.”

He raised a single eyebrow the way he did when he was negotiating with a stubborn councilmen. Or trying to manage the King. “If I let you outside, what will you do for me in return?”

The word  _ anything _ was on the tip of her tongue. But she knew she couldn’t say the word so callously, so thoughtlessly. She’d paid dearly for it the last time.

Over the months, she learned that he had a dark taste for humiliation. Pulling someone down from their pristine throne and dragging them through the dirt gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction. It’s what he’d done with the Ravkan king. It’s what he done to his enemies. She could work with that, she thought.

“I’ll get down on my knees and beg you.” He might like that. He might like to see Sankta Alina on her knees.

Something dark flashed in his eyes for a moment. Evidently, the thought did hold some appeal but it was not the answer he was looking for. “No. I don’t think so.”

“I’ll do it in front of everyone, then,” Alina amended quickly. “The people are afraid of you, they curse your name. But they still see me as their saviour. If they saw that I was...devoted to you, then perhaps they’d change their mind.”

A moment passed in which he seemed to consider her offer.

“That’s better,” he said, finally, standing up and slowly closing the space between them. She planted her feet so she wouldn’t back away as he captured her cheek in his hand. “Let them see their little saint on her knees begging for Ravka. It is what I should have made you do when you abandoned your country and ran off with that  _ otkazat’sya _ .”

He said the word with so much venom, Alina nearly flinched. She made herself look into his storm grey eyes but there was no kindness there, no comfort. But his touch was different; his touch was calm and steady. She leaned into his hand.

He pulled it away with a mocking smile. “Go. Go take your walk. When you come back, I want all of Ravka to see you on your knees, _Sankta_.”

She swallowed, unsure of what he wanted her to say, what he’d make her do, of who would be watching. She gave a small bow (“ _ moi soverenyi _ ”) and left.

 

**ii.**

 

It was bright cold day. Outside the Palace walls, pairs of  _ oprichnik _ clad in charcoal marched purposefully around the perimeter. Beyond the gates stood the peasantry and the serfs, pointing through the narrow bars, crying, “Sankta! Sankta!”

Alina ignored them. She could not save them.

Genya steered her into the small wood behind the palace which was mercifully free of Grisha and any other soul. She pulled Alina’s long hair into a single braid as she told the girl about her days---mostly little superficial things: a servant from the kitchens wanted advice on how to charm an oblivious Etheralki, she’d once completely messed up the kefta measurements for a Heartrender, and David had been ignoring her for far too long.

Alina smiled. She didn’t mind Genya’s stories, even if the world seemed to be crumbling around her. It was the only semblance of normality she had left. Genya never talked of the Darkling or the past either, for which Alina was grateful.

When they reached the doors of the Grand Palace on their return, Genya pressed her hand to Alina’s shoulder, concern swimming in her blue eyes. “I know you had to bargain something away for this afternoon. Just be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Of powerful men.”

She gave her what Alina thought was a bittersweet smile before returning to her wing of the palace. Alina made her way back to her own chambers thinking that it was much too late to be careful now.

 

**iii.**

 

“On your knees, Sankta.”

Ivan gave her a rough shove forward into the Palace square. The gates were once again full of the desperate and crying faces of the peasantry, the abandoned, the  _ otkazat’sya.  _ A perfect row of the Darkling’s _oprichniki_  stood guard, ready to strike down anyone who dared step out of line.

He was standing in the center of the square, his black  _ kefta _ swirling around him like a living shadow. He watched her approach, his features cold and unreadable. She hated when she didn’t know what he was thinking. She had to be ready for anything.

She was in view of the large crowd that had gathered outside the gates, crying her name, and in also in view of the rows of brightly colored Grisha that watched curiously. She knew Genya must be in the crowd somewhere along with Nadia, Marie, Zoya and David. She tried not to think about what they would say to her, what they would think of her, after today.

“You heard the Heartrender,” he said quietly.

She lowered herself onto her knees before him. Even through the layers of her  _ kefta _ , she could feel the hard stone biting into her skin.

“Now, beg for Ravka.”

She didn’t know what to say at first. She was vaguely reminded of when he told her to beg for Mal’s life. That hadn’t ended well. Did he want her to grovel at his feet? To make more bargains? To call him by his title? How much did he want to humiliate her in front of her people?

“I’m sorry,” she started. “I’m sorry I ran away when Ravka needed me. But I’m here now and I’m begging you to spare our people.”

He looked unmoved. “You can do better than that.”

She felt herself reddening. “Please let Ravka have peace.  _ Please _ . I’ll...I’ll do anything for you to save her.”

The corners of his mouth quirked up. She had uttered the wretched word but it still wasn’t good enough. He turned to glance at his _oprichniki_ _ ,  _ who reached through the bars and grabbed the screaming peasantry.

“Perhaps you need a little motivation.”

“No!” Alina cried. This hadn’t been part of their bargain. She found herself clutching his leg. She bent down and kissed his boot. “Please, don’t hurt them.”

He pulled the braid Genya had made and forced her to look up at him. “Did you think I would slaughter my own people? Did you think your begging could save them?”

He was mocking her but all she could think about was how he had marched the Unsea into Novokribirsk the day Mal died. She shook her head.

“That power lies with you,” she murmured, so no one else could hear. “I just wanted to please you.”

That seemed to soften his expression a little. He pulled her up and pressed a kiss to her lips. It was slow and gentle, like he wanted to take his time. She opened her mouth for him and he ran his tongue along her bottom lip, sending a small shiver down her skin. She hated him, but she hated herself more for liking it.

When he pulled away from her, a rush of cold air greeted her in his absence.

A sound of horror erupted from the crowd, their faces looking bewildered and betrayed. She was no longer their innocent little saint. She was just as powerless as they were.

She was  _ his _ plaything.

 


	3. A Lesson in Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mature Content Ahead*
> 
> I'm going to hell for writing this.

Alina laid awake in bed, absently touching her collar.

She’d tossed and turned for much of the night but sleep seemed out of her grasp. Her mind had been rapidly racing with a million thoughts. She knew there was only one person who could soothe her bubbling anxiety, one person who could overwhelm her so much that she nearly forgot who she was temporarily.

The Darkling was both her storm and her refuge.

Alina slowly cast off her sheets, stepping into the cold air. Her feet carried her across the room and came to stop at the door that connected their chambers. She poised her fist to knock, but paused for a moment, wondering whether or not she wanted to continue this madness. She could go back, she reasoned. She could crawl back into her sheets and pray for sleep.

But that wouldn’t bring her the comfort she was looking for.

She knocked once before she considered that maybe he was asleep already and she’d disturbed him.

“Come in,” said a smooth voice from the other side of the door.

Alina took a deep breath to steady herself and walked in.

The Darkling was standing with his back to her. His eyes met hers in the mirror and pinned her on the spot as he swept his gaze down the length of her sheer nightdress, pausing on her hips and the on the two small bumps of her nipples poking through the fabric. The hem stopped a few inches shy of her knees and where she had been so cold before, now she found herself warming under his gaze.

He turned around to face her, a dark shadow passing over his face.

“What have you come here for, Alina?” he asked. There was something predatory about the way he spoke to her, the way he moved.

“I wanted to see you.”

“See me?” A corner of his lips lifted. “We spend all our waking moments together. You could come see me anytime you liked.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But you’re always surrounded by your guards and I...I don’t have many friends here now...not anymore, anyway…I just couldn’t sleep and I thought….maybe you’d like some company...unless you’re busy...”

He ignored her blabbering, his gaze dipping down to her breasts for a split second before shamelessly meeting her gaze. “Are you cold, Alina?”

 _Oh God_ , she thought. _He could see. He could see everything and he didn’t even have the good grace to blush or look away._

Alina found she didn’t mind it so much but she wrapped her arms around herself anyway. “I’m always cold.”

They both knew that was bullshit. She could conjure up light and warm herself whenever she wanted to. But she liked pretending to be helpless before him, letting him see how small she was.

He crossed the room towards her in two slow strides and ran his hands down her arms. She felt herself melting in his gentle embrace and leaned her head against his chest. He stiffened slightly, but resumed rubbing her arms, her shoulders, her neck.

“What have you come here for?” he asked again.

“I was cold,” she murmured.

He yanked her hair back painfully and forced her to look up at him. “Don’t lie to me.”

He watched her struggling in his grip, the glistening in the corners of her eyes, her face grimaced in pain and his own features slowly changed from cold to something like satisfaction. With his free hand, he gripped her throat and pressed ever so slightly. “You wouldn’t like what I do to liars.”

The pain of his fist in her hair and the pressure of his grip on her throat awakened something. She felt sudden heat pooling between her legs. It was like when he’d first called the power out of her, but what escaped her this time was not light, but rather a soft moan.

“Careful, little saint,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were enjoying this.”

She must have turned about thirty different shades of crimson because the corners of his lips quirked up ever so slightly. He hooked a single finger under her collar, giving it a playful tug.

His steady breath tickled her cheeks and all Alina wanted to do in that moment was raise herself on her tiptoes and press her mouth to his. He must of sensed something in her desire because he let her go and turned away, walking back towards the other end of the room where a collection of crystal bottles stood.

“You said you’d do anything for Ravka,” he said conversationally as he poured himself a drink.

“What?”

“Yesterday,” he said, not turning to look back at her, “you said you’d do anything.”

Anything. The wretched word. She had let it slip yesterday in her desperation. Now he was going to make her pay for it.

“I did...”

She waited for him to say something but realized that he was watching her with that cold assessing gaze, taking in all her nervous pauses, the flush of her cheeks, the quickness of her breathing.

“Come here.”

Alina’s stomach gave a lurch but not wanting to keep him waiting, she approached him cautiously. There was a glass of amber liquid in his hands which he brought up to her mouth.

She reached for the glass with her hands but he swiftly swatted her hands away. “No.”

He wanted to pour it into her mouth. She tilted her head back and parted her lips as he held her head in place and tipped the liquid into her mouth. The first trickle burned her throat but before she could take anymore, something strange happened.

Either it was a sleight of the Darkling’s hand or she had moved somehow because the next thing she knew, the rest of the drink spilled down her neck and collarbones, staining the front of the nightshirt a dark blue.  

“Oh, Alina, look at what you did,” he said, setting the empty glass down on the table and regarding her as if she was a small clumsy child.

Alina stiffened slightly, feeling rather ridiculous. Had the Darkling spilled the drink over her on purpose? He tugged gently on her nightdress. “Look at how wet you are. You should take this off.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he lifted her dress over her shoulders and let it drop soundlessly on the floor. And now she was standing in the Darkling’s chambers in nothing but her pink underwear (with silly flowers on them, no less). Her arms reflexively went up to cover herself, but he caught her wrists in his firm grip and pulled her closer to him.

He bent down and ran his tongue down the length of her throat where the drink had spilled. “Is this what you came for?”

She felt something inside her twist to break free but she bit her lip and clamped it down. She had to bite down on her cheek to stop herself from moaning when he lapped at her collarbones and dug his nails into her bottom.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Her fingers are in his hair in an instant, lost in the silky feel of it. Her breath quickens but she doesn't make a sound. He pulls back to look at her, knowing she’s fighting with herself again. She thinks she can’t get blush anymore under his steady gaze but her cheeks heat up anyway.

He watches her face as he slips a hand into her underwear, without any warning or preamble. His slender fingers barely brush her but what he finds there is satisfying enough that he breaks a sardonic smile.

“You’re wet here too, little saint,” he murmurs. 

Alina was so ashamed she wished she could die on the spot. “No, _I’m not_!”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s the second time you’ve lied.”

“I’m not lying!”

“And that’s the third.”

He turned her around, making her face the mirror. She saw her own flushed expression, the rise and fall of her breasts, and the tangled mess her hair was in.

“Bend over,” he told her quietly.

“What?” She turned to look at him, but he placed a hand firmly on the small of her back.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He spoke the words so softly, so gently, as if it were a caress, but she knew better than to cross him.

She lowered herself onto the table, watching her reflection do the same. Save for her underwear, she was completely exposed and vulnerable. She met his eyes in the mirror and immediately wish she hadn’t.

He brushed her hair back from her face and watched at her as if he were admiring his handiwork.

“I expected more virtues out of you, _Sankta Alina_. Do you know what happens to little saints who tell lies?”

A moment passed before she answered him. “They get punished?”

His mouth was a hard line but his eyes had a dark glint in them. “Yes, they get punished. Sometimes, we must destroy the things we love so that no one else can have them. Sometimes, we have to mark them up so everyone knows it’s ours.”

Is that what he’d done to Ravka? Is that what he wanted to do to her?

His fingers were still grazing the small of her back. She felt her skin tingle with anticipation.

“Are you going to hit me?” Alina asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“I’m going to hit you five times,” he said smoothly, as if he was remarking on the weather. “But it’s your choice if you want to be disciplined. You can stay and take your punishment or you can leave.”

His hand strayed lower.

“But if you leave,” he added, “I’ll be very disappointed.”

The rational part of her mind told her to leave, to put an end to the madness she’d walked into. But she couldn’t forget the way the roughness of his hand had made her feel. She couldn’t forget how his usual calm exterior became slightly unhinged at the sight of her pained and humiliated. And though he had her at his mercy, she couldn’t help but see him in her mind’s eye: it was him on his knees before her, it was him that was overwhelmed by his weakness for her. She wanted that.

She wanted to see him just as lost as she was.

Slowly, she nodded.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I’ll stay,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. 

His features shifted ever so slightly. He’d been afraid she would leave. He continued to watch her for a moment, trying to bring out all her secrets. Finally, he met her eyes in the mirror and simply said, “You’ll count each time I strike you so I know when to continue. Don’t forget to breathe. Ready?”

She nodded.

He gave her a stern look before she added, quickly, “Yes, I’m ready.”

A silent moment passed between them before she saw him raise his hand in the mirror. He struck her hard, but not nearly as hard as she thought it would be. Heat flared up where he’d hit her as she exhaled the breath she’d been holding in.

“One,” she said quickly. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she’d imagined.

The second smack came down on the same cheek and it was harder too. He’d nearly knocked the breath out of her. She took a moment to steady herself, realizing (with some understandable horror) that the slickness between her legs had only increased.

  
“Two.”

The third landed on the other cheek with the same intensity, but on the fourth, he hit her as hard as he could and she cried out in pain, wet tears falling down her cheeks. A small tremor had went through the table she was leaning over and she slid down to her knees.

He let her sit there for a minute or two in complete silence. “Do you want to stop?”

It was less of a question and more of a challenge. She couldn’t see his face but she knew the look of disappointment that would wash over him if she got up and left now. She would stay because she wanted to make him proud. She would stay because she wanted to hear him say those two words to her at the end that made all the pain worth it. She shook her head again.

“Alina…” he said, a slight edge to his voice.

“No,” she blurted quickly, realizing her mistake. She didn’t want to get smacked for that too.

“Then get back up.”

She resumed her place over the table and clenched her teeth for the final blow. The Darkling took a moment to assess the four red handprints he’d left on her. He hadn’t intended to make her cry but now he decided he rather liked her this way. He wished he could have frozen the moment forever, but he knew once he struck the last blow, he’d have to send her away.

He raised his hand once more, inhaled, and struck her so hard she sunk to the floor again and started sobbing. His own hand was starting to hurt from all the contact; he could only imagine how much worse it was for her.

"Five," she breathed at last. 

After a moment, he gently lifted her up and cupped her face in his hands. He wiped away the tears that remained and let her lean on him for support.

“What do we say when someone gives us what we deserve?”

She hated him so much in that moment. “Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

“Thank you for what?”

“Thank you for punishing me.”

“You're welcome. Will you lie to me again?”

“No.”

“Good girl.”

She’d been waiting for those magic words, the ones that somehow healed every soreness in her. Later, when she was alone in her bed, she would replay the words over and over in her head until she fell asleep. He kissed her softly on the forehead and sent her back to her room.

It was lunacy, she scolded herself when she’d climbed back into her own bed. She’d come wandering into his room looking to be comforted and all he’d done was hit her and made her admit shameful things just to mock her. He’d sent to her bed with more bruises than kisses so why was she smiling? Why did she like it? Why was she wet?

After a long while, she decided that there was darkness inside her, after all. He had put it there.

And now, she would no longer deny it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FTR, I tried really hard NOT to write this fic.
> 
> I was hoping someone would have saved me the embarrassment and it would have existed by now. But since that's not the case, I guess I'll write it. You know, for the greater good ;)
> 
> Also, are you guys reading this seriously or are y'all just secretly cackling at me? I need to know.


	4. A Lesson in Obedience

**i.**

  
Barely a week had passed since the incident with the Darkling. Alina thought about it constantly, wondered if perhaps she’d imagined the whole episode. The only evidence she had was the soreness she felt in her backside the day after.

For the Darkling’s part, he barely seemed to register it. He went on as usual, planning with his war committee, putting together a group of hunters (Alina gathered he was once again searching for something, but for what she could only guess), and pawning off the decadence of court politics onto the Apparat and his men.

Alina found herself before Baghra once more. The Darkling had ordered more lessons for her though she couldn’t fathom why. There was no longer any need for pretense. The stag opened her power up like a long bright tunnel from which the Darkling need only reach his hand. But one didn’t just question the Darkling.

Baghra was being kept in a small cloistered room (which, by the standards of the Little Palace, was quite spacious indeed) in the southernmost wing of the palace. A pair of stone-faced _oprichnik_ were standing guard outside the door. It seemed they’d done everything they could to hide the old woman away. After her betrayal, Alina knew there would be consequences for Baghra, but what exactly that would entail she didn’t know.

Sitting in a rickety old chair by the fire, Baghra barely registered her entry.

“Come to see to my comforts, have you?” she nearly barked out.

“What?”

At the sound of Alina’s voice, the old woman stilled suddenly. “Ah, so the little saint has come back after all.”

Alina, still somewhat confused, stepped closer to the woman but what she saw there she would never forget. It had been hard to see Baghra’s face at first; the dim light of the fire had been casting sinister shadows under her eyes. But as the Sun Summoner stepped closer, she realized those shadows weren’t shadows at all, but rather two large bottomless pits sticking out on the old woman’s face.

Her eyes had been gouged out.

Alina bit back a scream and tried to keep her feet firmly planted on the ground. As she scrambled to think of a proper explanation, a single dark thought entered her: The Darkling _wanted_ her to see Baghra like this; wanted her to feel the tremor of fear that ran down her spine and the cold prickling sensation at the back of her neck. If this is what he could do to his own mother, what would he do to her?

“Come here, girl,” Baghra hissed at her, reaching out her hands. Swallowing her fear, Alina stepped forward gingerly as the old woman groped blindly around until her wiry hands brushed up against the collar and a stillness went through her. She didn’t speak for a long moment and Alina briefly wondered why Baghra was still taking students at all. It was clear she couldn’t see---not with those bottomless pits in her face. If she couldn’t see Alina summon light, then what was the point of the lessons?

“You were supposed to be Novyi Zem,” Baghra whispered at last, her voice bitter and laced with venom. “You were supposed to disappear.”

“It wasn’t an option.”

Baghra laughed harshly and in the dim light of the fire, her face resembled a cackling witch.

“Of course it was, girl! What did you do instead? Go hunting for that magic deer? Now you’ve brought death on us all. Look at what’s become of your beloved tracker.”

“ _Don’t you dare_!” A violent surge of anger rose up in her at the mention of Mal, not because Baghra was being cruel, no, but because she was right. If Alina had ran away to Novyi Zem with Mal instead of hunting for the stag, none of this would have happened. She could see an alternate life for herself, one in which she and Mal posed as Ravkan refugees, took on strange new names, and lived out their lives hiding from the Darkling and nursing whatever happiness they could have together. It was not an ideal life; it was not one with the riches and luxury she presently bathed in at the Grand Palace. But with Mal, it wouldn’t have mattered. With Mal, whatever happened to them would have been alright.

But now, that life was no longer a possibility; only a fantasy Alina could indulge in whenever she felt like torturing herself. Baghra smiled, more at some private joke than at her. Alina was so angry she wanted to Cut something. So that’s what she did.

There was no reason for her to spend another waking moment with this bitter old woman. Baghra reminded her too much of herself now, a shrivelled and broken thing hoping to save a boy who was long gone. She left the cloistered room and marched out into the grounds of the Grand Palace. Grisha and _otkazat’sya_ alike leapt aside at her racing pace as she headed straight for the woods again.

She lashed out at the first row of trees, moving her hands the way she’d seen him do countless times before, but nothing happened. She’d been meaning to take down a whole tree. As soon her hands finished the motion, her anger dissipated and Alina was left pressing her warm face into her palms, begging herself not to cry. If she started now, she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop.

Before even a single tear managed to spill, she felt a steady hand on her shoulder, filling her with an overwhelming sense of calm. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. She simply let her hands drop to her sides and let out a long sigh of relief.

 

**ii.**

  
They walked wordlessly into the woods. Alina knew she should have been terrified. The man who’d taken out Baghra’s eyes was standing right beside her, close enough that the folds of his _kefta_ occasionally brushed against her bare hands. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to feel the fear the peasants wore so easily or the panic that consumed the councilmen when they thought they might have offended him. To be perfectly clear, there _was_ a small part of Alina that had always feared the Darkling a little, but it was a healthy sort of fear, not anything like the sheer blind terror that seized everyone else.

There was no denying that the Darkling’s presence made Alina feel _safe_. After all, if she was under the devil’s protection, there was no one who could hurt her.

“I don’t understand why I need to continue my lessons with her,” she said, trudging along with him. She couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to glide gracefully through the snow whereas she had to stomp rather clumsily just to keep up.

“I have the amplifier,” she continued, carefully leaving out any mention of Mal. “I don’t have any trouble summoning on my own anymore.”

The Darkling regarded her for a moment before leading them deeper though the woods. Alina wondered if he had heard her and was about to repeat herself when he came to a stop.

“Do you respect me, Alina?”

“Of course,” she answered honestly. Had she offended him?

“Do you respect Baghra?”

She bit her lip. “...Sometimes, when she’s not being needlessly cruel.”

“Then tell me, what’s the difference between us? You’ll do what I tell you to, but not what Baghra tells you to. Why?”

His face was an elegantly blank mask. There was no use in mining it for answers. Alina shrugged slowly. “I suppose...I respect your authority more. You keep Ravka safe. I can’t say the same for Baghra. And she’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy type.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And I am?”

It took her a moment to realize he was only teasing and she laughed nervously. Was the Darkling actually _joking_ with her?

“You know what I mean,” she continued her case. “She’s difficult.” _And she’d have to be if she raised you_ , Alina thought darkly.

There was a shade of amusement in his eyes, almost as if he knew what she’d been thinking.

“When we have respect for people, we find it easier to obey them without questioning. We simply trust that they know what’s best.”

Alina wasn’t sure where he was going with this but she had a sneaking suspicion that by the time he finished lecturing her, she’d be reluctantly walking back to Baghra to continue her lesson.

“If you don’t care for what Baghra wants,” he continued, “then you’ll at least do what I tell you to. For example, if I asked you to kneel in the snow, would you do it?”

“Probably,” she replied, without giving it much thought. She didn’t know what made her say it but as soon as the word left her mouth, she knew it was true. She’d do anything he asked her to, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.

He watched her for a moment, as if calculating something. “Then, kneel.”

She wordlessly lowered herself into the cold snow, needing no extra pressure. It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised by this gesture.

The soft blanket of snow cushioned her knees but the coldness quickly seeped into the fabric of her _kefta_. She looked up at the Darkling, but his face was unreadable.

“How long do you want me to kneel?”

A pause.

“Until I tell you to get up.”

She could have sworn she saw a ghost of a smile as she watched him turn and glide slowly out of the woods, leaving her utterly alone in the bitter cold.

 

**iii.**

  
Alina wasn’t sure how long she knelt there. It could have been an hour or only ten minutes. It was hard to keep track of the time when the cold cut into her like a sharp knife. Her knees felt like large blocks of ice, an extension of the ground beneath her. Her lips were chapped, her teeth were chattering incessantly, and there was a throbbing ache in her thighs from holding the position.

The only thing that stopped her from standing up and walking back into the warm and cozy confines of the Grand Palace was the thought of the Darkling returning and finding her just as he’d left her. Alina didn’t know why it was so important that he found her like that; she only knew that there was a growing sense of pride in her heart at the thought of it.

When the Darkling finally returned, his footfalls were completely silently. If it wasn’t for the way his black _kefta_ stuck out against the white snow, he’d nearly have been invisible. There was a faint hint of something in his grey eyes, something like surprise. Or confusion.

He went to stand directly in front of her. At the sight of him, her knees begged to be released, but she didn’t dare get up.

“Why?” He asked. “You could have got up and left anytime you wanted. What if I had not come? Would you have knelt here until you froze to death?”

“I knew you’d come back.” Alina said simply. “You weren’t going to just let me die.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment. “Do you want to give up?”

“No,” she answered, rather quickly. A part of her brain chastised her for being stubborn.

“If I asked you to kneel for another hour, would you do it?”

 _An hour?!_ There was no way she could kneel for another hour; her knees were already shaking from exertion. Even if she did manage to hang on, she would certainly return with frostbite or pneumonia. Surely, he was being hypothetical?

She wanted to tell him _No_. She wanted to tell him he was mad. But what came out of her mouth was, “If you wanted me to.”

He crouched down before her, his steady gaze studying the quiver in her legs, her chattering teeth, and redness of her nose. He gently brushed the collar at the base of her throat.

“Is it so important that you do as I tell you?”

It was a question Alina had been asking herself for however long she’d been left kneeling there. She’d been unable to come up with any rational explanation so she quietly mumbled about the only thing that had kept her going.

“I wanted to make you proud,” she told him. “I wanted you to tell me I was...a good girl.”

It seemed so childish when she voiced the thought out loud. He didn’t say anything but continued to watch her with those merciless grey eyes. The blush creeping into her face was enough to warm her for a bit. Surely, she had said something stupid? Something that had offended him?

But the Darkling didn’t scold her nor did he laugh. He stood up and offered her his hand. “You can stand now, Alina.”

Gratefully, and with a bit of disbelief, Alina reached for his long slender fingers and was immediately calmed by the contact. He helped her back to the Grand Palace and set her carefully in front of the fireplace in her room.

Alina was sure he was going to call the servants in to see to her but he stayed. He draped a blanket over her huddled form and even set a cup of steaming tea by the table. She was too shocked to speak.

“Thank you,” she mumbled finally. She was slowly gaining sensation back into her knees and her teeth were no longer chattering. The tea was warm in her hands and she slowly blew on the steam as she watched him.

He shook his head and smiled softly at her. “I made you kneel in the cold and you choose to thank me?”

She slowly took a sip to delay answering. She was saved the trouble when he reached forward and brushed away a stray lock of hair. “Such a sweet little saint, aren’t you?”

Those words, more than the heat of the fire or the tea in her hands, was what had warmed her the most. She closed her eyes, instinctively, basking in the feeling of surety and safety that reverberated through her at the lightest of his touch.

 

**iv.**

  
“You will continue your lessons with Baghra.” He stated it like it was a fact.

“Baghra can’t see anymore,” said Alina evenly, keeping any accusations out of her tone.

“Your summoning needs work. She will teach you.”

She simply nodded her head, deciding it was best not to argue. When she looked up, she was surprised to see the Darkling was watching her expectantly, as if waiting for something.

“I mean...okay, yes, I’ll continue to see Baghra,” she amended.

“Good.”

 

**v.**

  
Later on, as she was getting ready for bed, Alina wondered if these lessons were more for Baghra than for her; a vindictive challenge to show her he was unstoppable. He’d caught Alina and the stag after all, and what was more, he’d collared her and expanded the Fold like he’d always wanted to.

The Darkling wanted to punish Baghra too.

 

**vi.**

  
She dreamt she was doe, picking at brambles in the woods. A dark figure emerged from the trees and gently stroked her muzzle. _Such a sweet little saint_ , he whispered.

In her sleep, Alina smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These mind games are a lot easier to write than smut. Maybe I'm just a prude XD


	5. A Lesson in Focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Explicit Content* starting from section (ii). 
> 
> Feedback is more than welcome! <3

**i.**

Slowly, but surely, Alina glimpsed a different side of the Darkling, the side she’d known during her first months at the Little Palace. She remembered their earliest moments together when he told her she was the first glimmer of hope he’d had in a long time. Of course, all of that had been for show; a facade he slipped on to distract and seduce her. Everytime she thought back to the way her heart had soared and dived at the thought of his kiss by the lake, her cheeks burned with shame.

Alina still believed the Darkling had his masks, but she wondered if not every word of kindness had been illusory. _The problem with wanting is that it makes us weak._

The anger that drove him to punish and humiliate her for running off had slowly started to fade. He’d always feel a little hurt about it, of course, especially when she’d run into the arms of that _otkazat’sya_ tracker, though he’d never admit it anyone. The Darkling held long grudges. But his penchant for silently mocking her gave way to a genuine willingness to teach the Sankta about the virtues he thought she ought to abide by.

She corrected herself when she nodded, even if she wasn’t speaking to him. She took a strange pleasure in doing the small tasks he’d set for her. She stopped lying to herself and admitted that perhaps she _did_ enjoy the thrill that went through her when his eyes strayed from his maps to the collar at her throat.

She vaguely knew, of course, (how could she not?) that power was a fragile balance. It was easy to conquer new lands, but difficult to erect stability. The bordering villages of Shu Han had seen the first of a handful of uprisings and word had spread that the Fjerdans were planning to drive their ships into the ports of West Ravka. However unlikely it seemed, if their enemies breached the walls of Os Alta, they would not hesitate to impale her head on a spike or burn her on a pyre in the Palace Square.

There was much anxiety in contemplating the future, but it was better than the bitter wound that opened up at the thought of the past. So Alina was content on focusing instead on pleasing the Darkling.

 

**ii.**

Alina’s lessons with Baghra had not been as fruitless as she’d imagined. The blind woman could still summon darkness like black ribbons and every time one of them brushed up against the light Alina had conjured, Baghra knew of its intensity, of its range, of its weaknesses.

“Focus!” She would say. Focus, focus, focus. It was one lesson Alina couldn’t master, not when her thoughts strayed so often to the Darkling.

When her afternoon lessons with Baghra were over, her evening lessons with the Darkling would begin. He didn’t strictly call them ‘lessons’, but Alina got accustomed to thinking of them that way. She would make her way through the gilded halls of the palace, a slight spring her step and her heart clamouring wildly with anticipation. After soaking in a tub of hot water and lavender-scented salts she’d acquired from Genya, Alina would brush her hair into a single braid and wait patiently in her room.

The Darkling didn’t always come. In fact, with their enemies plotting some kind of attack before the winter set in, he was usually travelling between the Fold and the borders or talking with his men in the war room. There were many nights when she stayed awake, waiting wistfully for that telltale knock on the door that connected their rooms only to go to bed, disappointed and resentful.

“Braid your hair and wait for me,” he’d said. It was the first and last time he had told her in advance that he’d be visiting her rooms.

“Why?”

“Because there’s something I want to teach you.”

“So I have lessons with you too, now?”

His lips held the suggestion of a smile. “Of a sort.”

She didn’t know what to expect that first night. His knock was so soft, she almost didn’t hear it. When he walked into her rooms, his dark imposing figure looked strange against the cozy decor. Alina wondered if the night would end with her bent over and with bruises running over her backside and a rush of excitement went through her.

He took a moment to survey the room before him and Alina was grateful the servants had come in earlier to tidy it up.

“Baghra tells me you’ve been having trouble focusing in her lessons.”

She tried to hide her disappointment at this turn in conversation but he saw it on her face nonetheless. “I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

His cool slate eyes moved over her and she shifted nervously on the spot. She knew when she was being studied.

“What’s been distracting you?”

Alina could’ve sworn she saw the corners of his lips lift a little as if he knew _exactly_ what had been distracting her.

“Just the future…” she trailed off vaguely, hoping he wouldn’t press.

“Of course."

“So what did you want to teach me?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

“Focus.”

“Oh,” she said, her shoulders dipping a little. So he was continuing Baghra’s lessons after all.

“What were you expecting?” he asked with a hint of a smile.

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing. Let’s get started.”

“I’ll decide when we start.”

There was something authoritative in his tone (or at least, more authoritative than usual) that had her skin tingling. She stood before him, hands clasped together, shoulders straight, and with her braided hair brushing up against her collar as he surveyed her.

“Lean up against the bedpost and put your hands above your head,” he said, nodding to the four-poster bed behind her.

She quickly acquiesced and did as she was told. The carved wood was cool under her touch in contrast to the heat she felt humming through her. The look she gave him was full of reckless intensity, as if all her secret desires were painted plainly on her face. His slate eyes revealed nothing and she wondered briefly if he ever truly felt anything human at all.

He took a calculated step forward and her breath quickened ever so slightly, her chest rising and falling as if her lungs couldn’t quite get enough air. He placed his hands around her wrists, twisting them higher in place. The familiar surge of calm washed over her at the Darkling’s touch, like a rushing river. She wanted to lean into him, to touch him long enough to follow that river wherever it led. His eyes seemed to carve into her.

“Focus, Alina,” he said, simply. “Whatever I do to you, don’t move, don’t speak, don’t even think.”

She had to use all her self-restraint not to quiver at this new command. She suddenly felt terribly self-conscious. He was still dressed in his black _kefta_ , looking regal as ever and his face giving nothing away. Yet, here she was, in yet-another sheer nightdress, struggling to breathe properly.

His slender hands trailed down her bare arms, then down her sides and then rested against the curve of her hips, never breaking eye contact. The space between her legs suddenly felt very empty and she silently begged him to touch her there but his hands resumed their tour of her sides as if he wanted to memorize the shape of her curves.

On his way back up her sides, he slipped his hands under her dress and cupped each of her breasts. She nearly gasped in delight but passed it off as a heavy breath. The material of her bra was thin enough that she could feel every change in pressure. With one deft movement---one he must have had years to master, no doubt---the clasp of her bra came undone and she barely had time to prepare herself before she felt those gentle hands pinching her nipples.

This time, she did gasp. It was a quiet, desperate noise, but in the small space between them, it was loud to her ears.

“I told you not to make a sound.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He pinched her again, but more roughly than before. “What did I tell you?”

She swallowed the moan in her throat. She could no longer tell if she was in pain or ecstasy, but she knew better than to answer him again. They stood like that for a tense moment, her nipples still in the mercy of his fingers before he released her and resumed his exploration.

He moved closer, his slender and muscled form pressing up against her. One hand casually massaged the nipple he’d been abusing while the other dipped lower and found the backs of her thighs. His tongue sampled the spot between her neck and shoulder, perilously close to where the collar rested. As he lapped at that spot territorially, she felt his hardness against her thigh.

Just the thought of making him unravel this way sent a jolt of exhilaration through her. She felt her hands slip lower on the bedpost, wanting desperately to touch him, but afraid (and perhaps a little excited?) at what he’d do to her if she moved.

A slow ache started to build and coil inside her, her hips unconsciously starting to rock against him. He bit her neck, right over the spot he’d been claiming with his tongue and she lost all sense of place and time. He’d told her not to move, not to speak, not to think but all she knew in that moment was that she needed to be filled. The ache inside her was growing so intense, she could barely stand it.

She was nearly trembling with need as she held him, one hand roaming in his hair, the other groping blindly for the only thing she knew could fill her.

He stilled for a moment.

Then he pulled away from her abruptly and struck her across the face.

Alina froze in shock and the sting of pain bloomed on her cheek. They were both breathing hard. He watched her silently for a moment before she corrected her position on the bedpost and tried to look as dignified as possible.

“Do you want to stop?” His voice was gentle, but the challenge was still there.

She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head.

He brushed his lips against hers. “I’ll reward you if you learn your lesson.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. The thought of being rewarded by him was enough to warm her.

“We’ll start from the beginning,” he said, placing his hands over her wrists once more. He repeated the same movements, the same mapping of her body.

She tried to keep herself still, tried to remind herself that if she could behave then she might get what she wanted so badly in the first place. He massaged her breasts again, lapped at her neck, slowly torturing her with pleasure. How was it possible that something that felt so good could be torture? How was it possible that his painful pinching could feel so good? His touch had scrambled all the wires in her brain.

The Darkling pushed her nightdress up over her shoulders, blinding her. He captured a nipple with his mouth and started the languorous process of licking and biting her. She couldn’t see where he was going to touch her next, and with what. She wanted to moan to cry out---in pleasure or pain, she wasn’t sure anymore---but she swallowed them all down.

_Focus, Alina._

She wanted to buck her hips, to rub herself all over him, to tell him (in no uncertain terms) that she needed him inside her. It was tempting (oh so tempting) to do just that, especially with his warm tongue circling those sensitive spots; especially with his cool fingertips pressing against her inner thighs, so perilously close to where she wanted them the most.

Deliberately, he brushed his fingers against that aching spot between her thighs, but never for more than a second. He swatted her slit a few times, secretly thrilled to discover how wet she was. She could barely stand that---the feeling of pressure that she craved only to have it taken away a moment later.

It was sweet, sweet torment and he knew it. The only thing that stopped her was the thought of her reward and of his command that seemed more and more monumental with each passing second: _Focus, Alina._

Just when she thought she was reaching the end of her rope, he finished his torment with a final swat and pulled her nightdress back down.

She was grateful to have her sight back and she took in the sharp angles of his features, the soft curve of his lips. She was panting as if she’d run a marathon but his breath was as steady as his gaze.

“What do you want, Alina?”

“Fuck me,” she whispered, the words out of her lips before she could think the better of them. Her own voice sounded so alien to her, so high-pitched and wanton. What had he done to her?

He seemed to consider this for a moment but pressed his lips into a hard line. “I don’t think so. You moved too many times.”

“Please,” she begged. “I’ll be good.”

This earned her a chuckle. “You’re an apt pupil but you still have so much more to learn. You lack discipline.”

“I can be disciplined. You only had to hit me once.” She had so little to bargain with but she had a desperate need that only he could satiate.

“If you were truly disciplined, I wouldn’t have had to hit you at all.”

A part of her wanted to scream. He’d gotten her all winded up and now he wasn’t going to release her? She swallowed the words in her mouth and stared blankly ahead. He watched her again, as if waiting for something but she remained silent; no begging, no excuses, no bargains, not even a mild tantrum.

Gently, he slipped his hand into her soaked underwear and let his fingers rest against her clit. She let out a little moan at the contact and held his arms for support.

“You want to cum, little saint? Go ahead.”

He was going to make her do the moving. It would be more humiliating that way. It would take so little effort for him to rub his fingers against her slick sex, but it was more debasing to watch her rock her hips against him, make her admit how much she wanted this.

She barely even hesitated, her mind consumed by a single need. She gripped herself against him and rode his fingers desperately, resolutely, shamelessly. It couldn’t have been more than five strokes before she felt herself explode in ecstasy, waves of pleasure humming through her as she trembled in his arms.

She wanted to say his name, to whisper it like a prayer, but she didn’t know it. He held her in his arms until the last of her climax left her and she felt into him like a limp doll. They rested against each other for a moment before he pulled away and regarded her.

Alina was so tired she was sure she’d collapse on the floor but she made herself stand tall again.

“And what do we say,” he asked, “when someone gives us what we deserve?”

“Thank you.”

 

**iii.**

Before he left, he let his fingers trail over her collar.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I don’t want you to be wearing anything.”


	6. A Lesson in Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any typos and grammatical errors; I edited this really late.  
> Considering the absurd length of this chapter, this may very well be a lesson in patience.  
> *Explicit Content* starting from section (iii).

**i.**

The weeks melded together in a blur of secret glances, distracted moments, and torturous hours waiting naked in her bed. Alina was starting to feel quite ridiculous spending each of her evenings in nothing but her collar. Genya had once invited her for a sleepover, but she’d declined, sure that the Darkling was going to visit her that night.

But he never came.

During the day, he kept a carefully measured distance away from her. He wasn’t avoiding her, exactly, but he didn’t find any reason to be in her company. And despite what he’d taught her about focus, she was more distracted in her lessons with Baghra with the prospect of him visiting her later that night looming in the back of her mind. Alina wondered if perhaps that had been the point, after all.

“Pay attention, girl!” Baghra would say, swatting her with her cane. For a blind woman, she had suspiciously good aim. “You’re not even trying anymore!”

It was true. She knew she should take advantage of the lessons to improve her summoning now that she had the stag’s power to amplify it. She knew she should practice using the Cut. She knew she should keep track of what was going on inside the war rooms and what the rumours of rebellion were. But strangely, the only thing that mattered was an all-encompassing need that dwarfed everything else around her.

It was only when she passed by a group of Grisha girls giggling uncontrollably did she realize how completely alone she was. The Darkling had isolated her from the beginning, but it had been so long since she’d laughed with Genya or listened to Marie and Nadia’s non-stop chatter. She was even beginning to miss Zoya and Saints, if she was craving the company of that haughty raven-haired Squallor who’d once broken her ribs, then she really must have been lonely.

The other thing that irritated her was how the Darkling was completely unaffected. If he was as distracted as she was, then the Fjerdans would have taken half of Ravka by now. Yet, he appeared to be level-headed and strategic as ever. She overheard Ivan talking feverishly to a group of Corporalniki about how they’d slaughtered an entire Shu Han raiding party at the border with an equal mix of fear and bloodlust.

The creeping suspicion that had haunted her on the nights she laid awake came back to her suddenly: what if it was all an act again? What if he meant to distract her so she’d stay weak? So she’d forget to find any reason to be away from him?

Feeling that she could no longer take another night of disappointed waiting, she invited Genya and the other Grisha girls to the sitting room that had once belonged to the Queen. Back then, the room had resembled a giant bejeweled box and it was hard not to remember the first time she’d been summoned there by the Queen, only to have her ladies in waiting silently mock her.

Now the room had been mercifully stripped of its gaudier appearance and Alina sat in a circle with other Grisha: Genya (who looked positively pathological as she tried on several of the Queen’s abandoned ballgowns), Marie (raiding through a pile of brightly patterned scarves), Nadia (pouring tea from an elaborately decorated gold-leaf samovar), and Zoya (who was trying very hard not to look too impressed with it all).

“So, Starkov,” started Zoya, sounding suspiciously nonchalant. “Where have you been hiding all this time? You think you’re too good to train with us or did you get scared?”

A twisted smile reached her lips but Alina didn’t miss the way the Squaller glanced briefly down at the collar.

“Shut up, Zoya,” said Genya, without bothering to look away from her mirror. “She clearly didn’t want some rule-breaking pyscho trying to murder her again.”

Zoya shot her a deadly look but Genya was too busy adding color to her face to notice. Alina simply cleared her throat and poured herself some tea. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Zoya was still watching her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, waiting expectantly. “It’s not just training that you’ve missed out on. You didn’t show up at the _banya_ or to that idiot’s sleepover or anything else for that matter.”

“The Darkling and I had a lot to discuss,” Alina replied tersely, hoping that would put an end to it.

Zoya raised an eyebrow. “Really? What with all his travelling and planning, I’m sure you two shared many hours of delightful conversation.”

“Saints,” interjected Genya. “Someone is seething with jealousy.”

“I am not! I’m simply pointing out that while we’ve been busy preparing for the last of our campaigns, the Sun Summoner apparently can’t be bothered to get off her ass and---”

Genya tossed a shoe in Zoya’s direction that (disappointingly) zoomed right past her face. “I told Alina not to invite you. Maybe now she’ll remember why.”

She gave Alina a cheeky wink before turning back to her reflection. Zoya looked murderous but mercifully dropped the topic and moved on to picking at her nails. An uncomfortable silence followed and Alina was overwhelmed by just how little she knew the girls.

“I wonder what the Queen is doing,” Marie mused, draping a floral scarf over her head. “Don’t you ever feel sorry for her, Genya?”

Genya pursed her lips into a straight line. “If she’s even alive you mean.”

News of the royal family was scarce. The King was dead (the Darkling had seen to that) but the princes and their mother were missing and no one had heard from them since the coup.

“There’s rumours of course,” offered Nadia. “I don’t know about the Queen but people in West Ravka are saying the prince is still alive and he’s been smuggling weapons for a rebellion.”

Zoya looked comically skeptical and Genya let out a bitter laugh. “Vasily? You’d have better luck putting your faith in a peasant.”

Alina had never formally met either of the princes but she knew the elder one had a reputation for drinking and gambling and cared for very little except for the state of his horses. She couldn’t recall if she’d ever seen the younger prince at court.

Nadia rolled her eyes. “I think the rumours were about _Sobachka_. I mean, he did do his military service in the infantry, right? Maybe he knows a thing or two.”

“ _Sobachka_ ,” crooned Zoya, “hasn’t been to court in years. Besides, what does it matter if he’s smuggling weapons for the rebellion? He’s not even royal blood if you trust the rumours and has no claim to the throne.”

“Neither does the Darkling,” countered Marie.

They all turned to look at her, surprised. As soon as the words had left her mouth, the Inferni turned bright red and jumped to clarify, shooting a terrified look at Alina. “I mean, if your only criteria is royal blood, I mean! Then no one but Vasily or the Queen could take it back.”

There was a tense silence in which all the girls seemed to be waiting on Alina. She didn’t understand why they were deferring to her, but then slowly realized they were trying to gauge her reaction. Would she let it go? Would she tell the Darkling? Order them out?

“Well, that seems unlikely,” Alina offered finally and an unspoken relief seemed to wash over the party.

“Careful,” said Zoya, looking infinitely more confident than she had a moment ago. “You don’t want to be talking treason in front of the Darkling’s pet.”

The rush of blood to her face made Alina instantly defensive. “I’m not his pet!”

“Mhm. Nice collar. Where did you get it?”

Now Alina really was regretting Zoya’s invitation. Maybe Genya’s sour mood was rubbing off on her because the next thing out of Alina’s mouth was: “Stuff it, Zoya. You know if it was around your neck instead, you wouldn’t waste a second gloating about it.”

The other girls burst into raucous laughter and Alina was pleased to see an ugly blush creeping up the Squaller’s neck. Whatever she pretended, Zoya was definitely raging with jealousy. Alina remembered the distant day when she’d looked enviously at the girl before her as she’d leaned out of a blue-lacquered carriage and shot Mal an enticing look.

It was immensely satisfying to know the feeling was now mutual.

 

**ii.**

The palace was abuzz with rumours of rebellion in the west and plots of assassination from the north, but Alina found she cared very little about any of it.

There might have been a time when such talk frightened and excited her, but the Darkling was managing to arouse the same feelings from her all on his own, even from a distance. She could no longer stand the waiting and was perilously close to shedding the last remains of her dignity and accosting the Darkling himself about his absence.

Darkling’s pet or not, the man was notoriously hard to get ahold of, even for her.

She waited until the last of the councilmen exited the war room before entering. The Darkling was leaning over an expansive map of Ravka that was covered in green markers that indicated infantry movement. He looked up as she approached and her breath caught in her throat; the last time they’d been standing this close, she’d been quivering on his palm.

She hastily brushed the thought away and edged closer to the table.

“Something you needed?” he asked, gesturing for her to sit.

Alina remained standing. In case the conversation took a negative turn, she wanted to make a quick exit. She cast a sideways glance at the _oprichniki_ stationed by the door, wondering if they would be listening. As if he’d read her mind, the Darkling dismissed them with a wave of his hand and she found herself completely alone with him.

“You’ve been busy,” said Alina tentatively, looking around the room. “I suppose it would be unfair of me to ask for more of your time.”

“I can always make time for you, Alina,” he replied, studying her face. “What did you need?”

So he was deliberately going to make her spell it out for him. Alina fought the blush of her cheeks, trying to remember the feeling of triumph and confidence she’d felt when she’d sassed Zoya earlier.

“I enjoyed our lessons,” she started, not trusting herself to make eye contact. “I was wondering when our next one would be.”

There. Now the ball was in his court.

He cocked his head to the side, his gaze dropping back to her throat. “Are you getting impatient, Sankta? Patience is a virtue.”

She wanted to tell _him_ to try lying naked in bed, waiting night after night. It may not have been intentional (Who was she kidding? Nothing was unintentional with the Darkling), but each night he didn’t show, it felt like a rejection. She spent her evenings wondering if she’d displeased him somehow, if he thought her an amoral slut, or if he had other girls he liked better. She’d once spotted Genya leaving his council chambers and been convinced they were secretly sleeping together. It had been maddening to say the least.

“Just a little,” she admitted. There was no use lying to this man. He extracted her secrets from her like candy from a child.

He stepped closer and took a hold of her chin. “Then we’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?”

Alina mind and heart raced together. Was he going to take her here? Right on the table with his _oprichniki_ standing outside? Before she got carried away, he dropped his hand and pointed to a spot on the map.

“But first,” he said, “there’s something else I need your help with.”

“Alright,” she said, trying to keep her excitement out of her voice. Being useful to the Darkling, being entrusted with these important tasks was what raised her esteem.

“There’s a new crop of logging shipments from Halmhend that need to make it across the Fold.”

Alina surveyed the map closely. His finger lay on a newly added black splotch south of the Fjerdan city of Halmhend. When they’d first struck out against Fjerda, the Darkling had used the Fold to quickly close Ravka’s greatest vulnerability: the barren stretch of land between the posts of Ulensk and Chernast. Now, if any Fjerdan army wanted to march across the border, they’d have to risk the bitter cold of Tsibeya. Since then, the Fjerdans had been co-operating, if a little reluctantly.

“When do we leave?”

“In a few days time. My councilmen have been discouraging me from making the trip on rumours of assassination but once we show them what the Fold can do, I think they will be sufficiently discouraged.”

‘Discouraged’ would be an understatement. Running back home with their tails between their legs and their pants soiled was the usual reaction the Darkling elicited from his enemies. But Alina already knew this.

He walked her back to her chambers. When they reached her door, he leaned in and kissed her briefly on the top of the head. “Get some rest. You’ll need all your strength for the journey.”

Alina took this as a cue that he wouldn’t be visiting her until their trip north was over. She tried to hide her disappointment but he saw it nonetheless. He tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear and smiled faintly.

“If you do well, little saint, I can promise you another lesson.”

So that was the condition. And Alina was determined not to fail him.

 

**iii.**

The post at Ulensk was outfitted with the monolithic Grisha tent Alina had come to associate with crossings of the Fold.

Nearly a year ago, she’d been brought here before the Darkling for the first time, a junior cartographer from the First Army who was laughably out of place among the beautiful Grisha in their brightly coloured _keftas_ lounging around in divans and drinking kvas.

Now, she got to sleep in the expansive section at the back of the tent by the Darkling’s personal quarters. Servants waited on her hand and foot and even several of the former King’s men nodded at her in acknowledgement.

The crossing of the Fold had went quickly and smoothly; the distance was not as expansive as it was between Kribirisk and what had once been Novokribirsk. By now, the volca grew familiar with the destructive consequences of flying too close to her power and strayed away.

She was sitting alone in her personal quarters where she could indulge in tea cakes and avoid Zoya’s menacing gaze and the rest of the Grisha. Without Genya, she still managed to feel isolated and out of place.

“You’re not enjoying the festivities.”

Alina would have startled at the voice had she not been expecting it. She stood up from her chair and watched the Darkling’s tall figure emerge from the thin flap that separated her sleeping quarters from the rest of tent. Through the sliver of light from the flap, she could make out the movements of several Corporalki talking animatedly with each other.

“I was tired,” she lied. Though the journey north had worn them all out, Alina felt rejuvenated and restless from using her power. But she didn’t want to tell him how she still felt alone, even amongst the Grisha.

He raised an eyebrow. “Tired of using your power or tired of all the people?”

Alina shrugged. “You caught me. I didn’t think I could take any more of Zoya.”

“The only reason they’re celebrating is because of you.”

“I think they’ll manage without me,” she said with a sad sort of smile.

“Are you ready for your lesson?”

A tremor went through her body but Alina wasn’t sure if it was fear, excitement, or some combination of both.

“...Here?” she asked, slowly. Behind him, she could still make out brightly coloured _keftas_ moving back and forth through the small slit in the tent flap.

“Would you prefer we convened on the Fold?”

His expression was serious but Alina knew he was only teasing. Some terrified part of her seemed to agree that having the volcra as a possible audience would be preferable to a Grisha accidentally walking in on them and a somewhat hysterical bubble of laughter arose from her.

“The volcra could probably use a show.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, here is fine,” she said finally, feeling those steel grey eyes carving into her. She sounded a lot more confident than she felt at the moment.

“Good,” he said, pulling something from the shadowy folds of his _kefta._

The lamp in the tent was dim and Alina could barely make out what he was holding until he stepped closer.

It was the rope they’d used to secure the logs onto the skiff.

Alina was still attempting to understand its significance when he placed the bundle of rope on her table and told her to be ready by the time he returned and ducked under flap of her section to join the rest of the Grisha.

She stilled for a moment, considering what was about to take place. Was she really going to let him do as he pleased with the rest of the Second Army a tent flap away? She remembered how excited and terrified she’d been back in the war room at the thought of the _oprichniki_ outside the door. What did that say about her?

Alina didn’t want to make herself so vulnerable, especially with what she was sure were a rowdy gaggle of Heartrenders standing not too far away. Yet, she feared displeasing the Darkling more. So she tentatively stripped down to nothing and sat in a slightly panicked haze in the middle of her bedroll, praying to any and all the saints she could remember to stop someone from accidentally falling through the tent flap.

More than once, her gaze slipped to the bundle of rope the Darkling had set on her table. They looked perfectly innocuous and he hadn’t explicitly said he was going to use it on her. Perhaps he was just emptying his pockets. Absently, her fingers grazed the collar as they so often did when she was lost in thought. Would he make a leash? Would he make her crawl? Would he parade her through the Grisha tent, stark naked? Terror, anger, lust, and longing mixed together in her head that she could no longer identify what she was feeling anymore.

By the time he returned, the sounds beyond her quarters had lessened somewhat. Someone outside had lit a massive bonfire and no small number of Heartrenders and Inferni had left to join in. The Darkling didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge her presence as he swept under the flap and took the rope in his hands, testing its strength.

An involuntary whimper escaped her throat as Alina conjured up terrifyingly humiliating scenarios. He’d always taken the time to make sure she _wanted_ everything he was giving her. Would he offer the same courtesy for this? If he ordered her out of the tent right that moment, would she do it? How far did that need to comply with his every wish run?

He looked down at her at the sound. There was no kindness in his eyes, only cool detachment.

“What did you think I was going to do to you?”

Alina took a steadying breath. “...That you’d make a leash and make me crawl around the Grisha tent.”

The Darkling seemed to be fighting a smirk. “And would you like that, Alina?”

“No!” she said quickly, shaking her head. The last thing she wanted was to give him ideas.

“Well,” he said, glancing back at the rope in his hands. “That’s not what this is for.”

He didn’t elaborate any further, but some of her initial anxieties seemed to have been quenched.

“Lie on your back,” he ordered.

She did as she was told and watched the way his tall frame towered impossibly over her. The rope was still stretched in his hand. His gaze swept down the length of her naked body.

“Your lesson tonight is on patience,” he lectured, crouching down next to her. “If you want to be a good soldier, you must learn to wait. Wait for the opportune moment, wait for your enemy to reveal their weakness, wait to strike out when they are at their lowest.”

He fasted the rope around her wrists and tied them off to the leg of her table that stood above her head. She tried to pull out of the bonds but there was no slack in the rope. For an intense moment, they just looked at each other. His will seemed to descend on her, molding her like clay. He crushed and remade her in his image and she was helpless to resist.

That was what she wanted: to be whatever he wanted her to be.

He placed his hands on either side of her and leaned in, his lips inches from hers. When he spoke, his voice took on a low, unhurried quality. As if he had all the time in the world.

“Tonight, I’m going to lick every sweet little inch of you until you beg me to let you cum.”

Alina’s breath caught at this revelation. The Darkling ran his tongue slowly over her bottom lip.

“But I won’t let you,” he added darkly, “until you deserve it.”

He watched as her eyes widened a little, at the flutter of her eyelashes, at the way her breathing picked up. She was so inept at concealing her own sinful desires, but she didn’t care in that moment. Whether he wanted her to be a slut or a saint, she would submit.

He moved further down the bedroll, positioning himself at her feet.

“Open your legs.”

Alina’s stomach gave a lurch as she spread her legs apart, leaving herself vulnerable before him. He spent a good minute simply looking, no, _inspecting_ her. As if she were some object he was considering to buy.

He noticed she was quite pink. The folds of her outer lips concealed just a slit of wetness. So all that talk about licking her had excited her a little. He filed that information away for later. He brought his face close to her, his breath tickling her clit in a tortuous way he wasn’t entirely unaware of. He took in the scent of her, that musky sweetness that was intoxicatingly both familiar and foreign.

Like he’d done with her lips earlier, he ran the tip of his tongue in one fluid motion from the bottom of her invitingly wet slit all the way to the top. Her hips rose up at the contact and he had to hold them down in place to stop her from rocking into him.

He kept a slow, languid pace, swiping down the length of her, listening to her soft moans and gasps as he discovered all her secret places, all those hidden spots that made her squeal and clench up. She tasted sharply tart and vaguely like the sweet citrus fruit he’d once eaten as a child. He carefully inserted a finger into her as his tongue circled her clit and he was rewarded with a delighted moan. He kept adding fingers, experimenting with the strokes, swatting her when she moved too much, and expertly teased out of her what she liked.

Her breath came in ragged pants and she was sure someone on the other side of the flap would hear them. She was so lost in the pleasure he was giving her, she didn’t care in the slightest. She could feel the pleasure mounting inside her, threatening to explode. His warm tongue swiped at places she hadn’t even considered before and the steady rhythm his fingers set were driving her closer to the edge.

He could tell she was close by the way her hips refused to sit still and the rather shameless sounds she was making, not caring who would overhear. He pulled away, considering her for a moment.

“Please,” she whispered. “I’m so close.”

He bent down to give her clit a small affectionate nip before standing up, satisfied at having brought her to this point.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he said, watching her writhe in frustration beneath him. “Say it.”

If Alina’s wrists hadn’t been bound, she would have hit him. She knew this was coming, she _knew_. Yet, she’d hoped that maybe he’d forget, that maybe he’d indulge her a little.

She clenched her teeth. “Good things come to those who wait.”

He licked his lips, savouring the last of her juices while he watched her incredulous expression. The gesture was so erotic, Alina nearly came just from the sight of it.  
He chanced a glance outside the sliver of the tent flap, watching as the oblivious Grisha were lost in conversation, not knowing that their beloved Sun Summoner, their Sankta, was tied up and wanting like a filthy whore. He had to stop himself from grinning wickedly at the thought.

“I have to leave,” he said casually, relishing the way her features turned from lust to anger. “There is paperwork to be taken care of.”

He crouched down to the table leg where he’d secured her wrists. “I’m untying you because I trust you will not touch yourself until I return. Understood?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His expression became dark. “If I discover you have, I will drag you out and let the entire Second Army take you.”

He would never do such a thing, of course. He was too selfish to share his little saint like that but the threat achieved what he wanted anyway. Her eyes went wide and she told him she wouldn’t even think of it.

Satisfied, he cut her loose and left her in silence.

Alina wondered how he could possibly know whether or not she’d touched herself, but she didn’t want to risk it. She looked into all the shadows of the room, the way they curled up in the corners and wondered if they were watching her too.

_Good things come to those who wait._

The Darkling had said he wouldn’t let her cum until she _deserved_ it. Alina wasn’t sure what he’d meant by that. The space between her legs was still tingling from his tongue and she thought she could still somehow feel the ghost of that sensation rolling over her. No one had ever went down on her before and, _oh Saints_ , it had been glorious. She’d been worried she would taste weird but the thought of the Darkling licking every last drop of her from his lips sent her into a new level of euphoria.

_Good things come to those who wait._

She idly wondered what he tasted like. With a start, Alina realized she’d never actually seen any part of him. Throughout all their lessons, she was the one who’d stipped down to nothing but he was always smartly dressed in his black _kefta_. He asked her for everything but never gave himself away.

She spent the next half hour in an agonizing wait. The throbbing in her middle had lessened somewhat but every time her thoughts strayed to the way he’d licked his lips, she ached to be touched again. She was practically burning with need and whispered the lesson to herself like a desperate prayer to keep her mind occupied. She didn’t want to think the Darkling would _really_ hand her over to the Second Army like a ragdoll, but the man surprised her sometimes.

When he returned, she was even wetter than before. The paperwork had taken longer than expected and he was eager to take out his frustration on his willing pet if she had, indeed, misbehaved.

“Did you touch yourself?” he asked without ceremony.

She blinked up at him. “No,” she answered honestly.

He slipped his fingers into her sopping wet slit, pleased to get a desperate reaction out of her. “You behaved for me?”

A slow smile graced her face. “Yes.”

A part of him lamented at not having an excuse to punish her but he continued the lesson nonetheless.

“On your knees, then.”

She knelt before him, inevitably thinking back to the day at the Palace Square. But this was different.

He slipped two of his fingers into her mouth, feeling her tongue. With a start, she realized they were still coated with her wetness from where he’d touched her.

“Do you like how you taste?” he taunted, sliding his fingers in and out. 

Alina was oddly comforted by the rhythm of his fingers but he pulled them out and gripped her throat. “There’s something else for you to eat. Take it out.”

He couldn’t be serious. After all the waiting, was he really going to let her? She suppressed the gleeful expression that was threatening to wash over her features. She didn’t want him to know how excited she really was.

Tentatively, she reached into the folds of his _kefta_ , clumsily fiddling with buttons and fasteners (and growing more and more red at her ineptitude) until his erection sprung free and a certain look of delight spread over her face.

Before she could get her first taste, he pulled back the braid of her hair painfully.

“Look at me when you put that in your mouth, little saint.”

She was unbelievably embarrassed at this new instruction, he could tell. But she kept eye contact as she licked the tip of him. Her eyes seemed to be pleading, her cheeks reddening and she looked as though she was going to cry from shame.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

When she averted her gaze, he yanked on her hair until she corrected herself. It was so satisfying to see that mouth---the one that had kissed the _otkazat’sya_ tracker, the one that had declared she would never bow down---be used this way. He would make her submit, even if it shredded every last bit of her dignity.

It was so debasing: she couldn’t use her hands, couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away. His piercing gaze was relentless and she was forced to meet it with every stroke. She felt him hit the back of her throat and decided that this was the most humiliating thing she’d ever been made to do.

Despite all this, she found herself moaning, sending wonderful vibrations down the length of him. Her fingers itched to touch herself. She felt a single trickle running down her thigh. At one point, he even held her head in place as he fucked her throat roughly. Her mind melted away. She was no longer Alina Starkov, the soldier, the Sun Summoner, the Saint. She was simply a hole for him to use. She closed her eyes (he didn’t yank her hair this time) and felt herself growing smaller and smaller and smaller until she ceased to exist altogether.

He pulled out of her and forced her to tilt her head back. The sudden loss of his cock made her throat feel strange, as if she’d forgotten the ordinary feeling of having a mouth that belonged solely to her.

“Keep your lips open, but don’t swallow.”

Alina barely had time to register what he meant before she found her tongue filling up with the warm and salty taste of him. She held herself still for a hesitant moment, mouth open. He was possessed by the wicked desire to flip open the tent flap and let the rest of the Second Army get a good look at her on her knees before him with a mouthful of cum.

He took her chin and held it in place. “What did you learn today, Alina?”

Her eyes were glazed over, like she wasn’t quite all there. She couldn’t speak, not with her lips open and a mouthful of cum on her tongue but he’d told her to keep them open and not to swallow so she stared back at him, expectantly.

“Alina…” he said, like he was chastising a small and simple child. “Say it.”

“Gook fings come fo fose foo fait.”

An impish smile slowly grew on his face until Alina thought its corners seemed to curl in on themselves. She had been wrong; _this_ was now the most humiliating thing she’d ever been made to do.

“Good girl,” he said, condescendingly, patting her on the head. “Now, swallow.”

 

**iv.**

When she came later, he had to cup her mouth to muffle her screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC, I’m like the Snowqueens Icedragon of the Grisha fandom. 
> 
> Kill me.


	7. A Lesson in Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Darkling gives Alina a lesson she won't soon forget ft. an unexpected hairbrush  
> *~Explicit Content*~ from part (iii) onwards

i. 

 

Alina Starkov was having a hard time thinking straight.

Partly, it was because any sight of the Darkling was like drinking a heady glass of wine too quickly. She felt the brittle and wiry parts of her uncoil and extend tentatively outwards, like a newly born beast testing out its limbs. When she spent long afternoons with Genya or giggled stupidly in the baths with Marie and Nadia, she no longer felt like she was suffocating in their company. Since the moment she’d arrived at the Little Palace, she’d been desperate to fit in, desperate to prove herself. But now that she had the Darkling's approval (in more ways than one), she could finally release all the tension she’d been holding in.

“You’re looking happier,” commented Genya. “Anyone special I should know about?”

Alina was seated in front of her mirror with Genya standing behind her and performing all kinds of impossible ministrations with her hair. Alina didn’t fight the blush that creeped up her neck this time. Instead, she gave Genya a knowing smile in the mirror.

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

This earned her a smack on the back of her head with a hairbrush.

“Ow, Genya! I hope you didn’t treat the Queen this way!”

Alina regretted the words as soon as she said them but Genya recovered her slightly startled expression quickly.

“I don’t think I’d have a head if I had,” she said, returning to Alina’s hair as if nothing had happened. “Now, don’t change the subject! Who is it that you’ve been kissing?” 

For a moment, Alina considered telling Genya everything that had taken place between her and Darkling. She had very little in the way of friends in Os Alta and Genya was like one of those confidants she’d always wanted, right? A female friend who was well-versed in the art of flirting and reading covert signals; a friend who could offer her wise advice on how to interpret the Darkling’s cryptic words. Had it been any other Grisha---heck, even if it had been someone ridiculous like Ivan or Zoya---she wouldn’t have hesitated in telling Genya everything.

But this was _the Darkling_ , the leader of the Second Army, the man who’d usurped a monarchy that had been in power for _centuries_ , the commander who’d driven the Fold into their enemies and brought them to their knees. That wasn’t the sort of person you casually kissed in a closet and girlishly fantasized about. That wasn’t the sort of person you were supposed to get involved with at all.

Alina didn’t care about what she was _supposed_ to do. She wanted his approval, craved it even, like she craved air and water. Besides, Genya kept secrets too. And sometimes that wasn’t always a bad thing. She looked at the tailor’s reflection, her gaze steady and unyielding.

“It’s not any of your business, Genya.”

For a tense moment, she thought Genya would laugh at her. Or worse, tickle it out of her like she’d done on so many other occasions. To her surprise, Genya’s mouth simply hardened into a thin line.

“If you don’t want to tell me, then fine. But just be careful. Remember what I said?”

_Be careful of powerful men._

“Of course.”

Genya finished her work in silence, but there was a furrow in her brow that hadn’t been there before. Alina was sure the tailor was perceptive enough to read between the lines. She hadn’t outright said who’d been keeping her up at night, but in some ways Genya had already guessed at a certain intimacy between Alina and the Darkling.

Everyone had, in fact. It was hard not to when they were both alienated by their otherness. Then there was the small fact that it was Alina’s power that had made it all possible; it was Alina’s power that had disposed of the King. She could rationalize all she wanted about how she was simply an unwilling weapon in his hand but if she was really honest with herself, she knew it was lie.

If she _really_ cared for Ravka, she should have killed herself ages ago. Or run away to Novyi Zem when she’d had the chance. She understood now why Marie and Nadia censored themselves around her, why Zoya tried to inconspicuously observe her reaction to events, why Genya conceded her privacy without much of her usual fight.

They were starting to treat her like a Queen. They saw her set apart from them, moving together with the Darkling as one cohesive force. As Alina considered the girl in the mirror, she wasn’t sure how she felt about it all. On the one hand, she was sick and repulsed by the weapon she’d become; at the weapon she’d _let_ herself become. But buried deep down, there was another part of her, a more primal and seemingly ancient part of her, that was delighted at being used.

In Kermazin, she’d been a faceless orphan. In the First Army, she’d been a useless nobody. But in the Darkling’s hands? She was the flaming sword that scorched the world.

**ii.**

 

Fall gave way to winter as much of the Second Army returned to Os Alta from their border posts. Both the Little Palace and the Grand Palace became littered with swirling groups of red, blue, and purple as old friends reunited and the country seemed to let out a collective sigh.   

Whispers about ‘The Prince of the Air’ circulated though none of Ravka’s leadership were terribly concerned. It would be a foolish thing indeed to attempt invading in the winter. Soon those whispers died down and were replaced with the familiar excitement of the Winter Fete.

“It’s weeks away,” complained Alina. “And who’s to say there’ll even be a fete this year?”

Genya was offended. “Don’t be ridiculous. If there wasn’t a fete, we’d have a rebellion on our hands.”

They had once again convened in the Queen’s former sitting room, a handful of Grisha girls from each order gossiping, sipping tea, trying on gowns, and generally behaving as most adolescents do before a ball. Over the past few weeks, it had become a sort of makeshift refuge from all the hours of training and Grisha theory. Every week, more girls arrived, anxious to catch a sight of Alina and try on the glittering ball gowns.

“I just can’t believe anyone would even look forward to this kind of thing. After everything that’s happened…”

There was certainly no sentiments of betrayal from the Darkling’s Grisha about the revolution---at least, not among those who had chose to stay. The serfs believed their country was being led by a demon but they’d always been a superstitious bunch. Yet, it all felt wrong to celebrate. People had died, kings had been sacked, ambassadors had been assassinated, and the Fold was on the move. Was it right that they should wear pretty dresses and flirt with each other as if nothing had happened?

“Oh, please,” said Genya, tossing a silk blue dress at her. “People need the fete now more than ever. It’s the first time things can finally go back to normal. Besides, all this talk of campaigning and attacking has everyone exhausted. This might actually be the first ball I’ll be enjoying in years.”

She didn’t need to explain. Alina had been all too aware of the way the King had looked at Genya at the fete last year;  how they’d both mysteriously disappeared together. If there was a single person in all of Ravka who was happy about the King’s death, it was Genya. Surely, she was permitted one night of celebration?

Soon the other girls were advising her on what kind of dress she should wear, how she should do her hair, and who they were looking forward to seeing and Alina felt more at ease with the idea. When the last of the stragglers had left for their evening lessons, Alina decided to put in a word at the Fabrikator workshops for a new dress. 

The year before, the Darkling had sent her an elegant silk black dress with a charm of his symbol at the neckline. She couldn’t very well wear that _again_. Besides, the girls had inspired her to don a dress of pure white and gold so she would shimmer in the light as she danced and moved. But when she reached the workshop, an aloof Fabrikator informed her that her dress was already complete.

“ _What?_ But I didn’t even put in a request.”

“You didn’t have to. The Darkling requested it ages ago. Yours was the first one we finished, actually.”

Alina tried to keep the resentment out of her voice. _The nerve!_ Did the Darkling think she was so clueless that she couldn’t dress herself? “And where is it, may I ask?”

“It will be sent to you the day of the fete.”

She narrowed her eyes at the Fabrikator but he seemed unfazed, almost as if the Darkling had told him to expect this reaction from her, which only infuriated her more. “And why can’t I see it now?”

“Darkling’s orders.”

“Right,” she said as she turned her heel and stomped all the way back to her rooms. A last minute peace agreement with the Shu had kept the Darkling away from Os Alta so she couldn’t storm into his office and demand to know why he was keeping her dress hostage; why she wasn’t allowed to choose a dress of her own this time like everyone else.

If the Darkling wanted to play this game, she’d play. There were other ways she could make her disapproval known. She sent Nadia back to the Fabrikator the next day to request the golden and white dress she wanted under the guise that it was for someone else. She spent more time watching groups of Grisha men from different orders, trying to work out which one would infuriate the Darkling the most. It wouldn’t do to ask an Etherealnik: that would be too predictable. A Materialnik would simply earn her a few raised eyebrows and nothing more. But a Corporalki Heartrender? Perhaps one that was close to the Darkling? Someone like Ivan? That would definitely cause a stir.

She wouldn’t risk asking Ivan---he’d surely laugh and decline her offer---but she’d noticed another Corporalnik that moved in the same circle of Heartrenders and _oprichniki_ who’d yet to be gifted with a much coveted amplifier; someone who still felt he had something to prove.

His name was Eryk and he was perfect.

A week before the fete, she waited for him outside the anatomy rooms, reciting the words over and over again in her head. She was proud of how much covert intelligence she’d gleaned about him over the weeks (mostly through Marie coaxing it out of Sergei) and was sure there could be little in the way of objection.

Eryk exited the anatomy rooms at last and Alina didn’t bother to peek through the gap in the door. Some things were better left unknown. Like all powerful Heartrenders, he was as cocky as he was handsome. But unlike other Heartrenders, he had a bone to pick with the Darkling.

“Alina,” he greeted with a small bow. “I was wondering when you’d come see me.”

“Really?” she asked, trying not to show her surprise.

“Sergei says you’ve been asking a lot of questions about me. You’ve come to ask me to the fete.”

Alina presently wanted to punch Sergei in the face but she simply forced a gentle smile.

“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing,” she replied, feigning shame. “But people are so intimidated by me these days that I can hardly wait around to be asked.”

“Mhm,” he said thoughtfully. “So you’ve come to ask me, someone you barely know.”

Alina didn’t know why but she felt like punching him too. The way he pretended like he knew everything she was thinking was beginning to test her patience.

“I don’t think of it that way. I think of it like two people who the Darkling has ignored for far too long coming together to show everyone how memorable they can be.”

“So this has nothing to do with my stunning good looks and formidable heartrending skills?”

She suppressed the impulse to roll her eyes. “It may have contributed to my decision. Otherwise, I would have asked Ivan.”

This seemed to please him as his eyes widened ever so slightly. A little flattery never hurt. “If _that’s_ how you feel, then go ahead.”

A pause.

“Go ahead with what?”

“Go ahead and ask me,” he said with a smug smile.

Somehow this had become more painful than she imagined. She wondered if perhaps just wearing whatever the Darkling had asked of her and showing up dateless was truly the better option. “Will you….please….accompany me...to the fete?”

Eryk considered her offer for a moment as Alina contemplated eating her own tongue. What if he’d let this go on this long just to reject her? It seemed like something Ivan would do.

But Eryk simply flashed a white-toothed grin (one that looked like he practiced it in the mirror one too many times) and said, “Of course, Sun Summoner. Anything you wish.”

 

**iii.**

 

The days leading up the fete were hectic with overworked Fabrikators crafting last-minute dress changes to newly arrived Grisha desperate to put in an appearance at the ball. Alina’s new dress had arrived at last; a stunning gown of pure white, pinched elegantly at the hips, and embroidered intricately in gold beads from bust to hip. She hung it up by her door so she could turn and admire it from time to time.

She couldn’t wait to see the Darkling’s face when she walked into the ballroom in it with Eryk on her arm---if he was even coming. Negotiations with the Shu had kept him longer than anticipated but Alina was grateful for his absence. There was little she could do these days that went unnoticed by him.

Rumors had instantly began to fly about Alina and Eryk, as expected. She’d kept her mouth shut, relying on Eryk’s unnaturally large ego to do the work for her and wasn’t disappointed. Somehow, her first and only encounter with him outside the anatomy rooms had transformed into tales of a long and secret affair, the most ridiculous of which were speculations as to whether or not Alina was with child.

Instead of trying to deny the silly rumours, she let them flourish, adding her own wild guesses to the tale. Genya shook her head in disappointment, wasting no idle opportunity to tell her of the thousands of other options she could have pursued instead.

“Eryk is the worst. I know you picked him just to make the Darkling jealous but I don’t think he’s going to react the way you think he will.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Darkling doesn’t play games. Have you forgotten how ancient he is? We’re all forgettable moments in his long life. You think he’s going to care what you do for one night?”

Alina pursed her lips. Of course, she hadn’t forgotten though sometimes it was easy to do so. Besides, she was sure the Darkling _most definitely_ was toying with her. Leaving her alone for long periods of time only to return with the small scraps off his plate. Like she was his loyal dog. She’d had enough of it and now the Darkling would know just how much.

“I’m not doing it to make him _jealous_ ,” she said, convincing no one. “There’s no rule banning me from asking someone to the fete, is there? The Darkling isn’t my lover and he’ll just have to accept I’m an independant person who’s capable of making her own decisions.”

Genya snorted. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Alina brushed off her vague warnings but when she returned to her chambers that night, she was startled to see the Darkling standing in the center of her room, with his hands crossed behind him. She hadn’t known he’d arrived and as far she knew, he wasn’t supposed to arrive for another day.

“ _Moi soverennyi ,_ ” she said reflexively, though she wished she hadn’t. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He said nothing, casting his gaze to something behind her. With no small amount of horror, she realized he was contemplating the new dress she’d hung up. This wasn’t how he was supposed to see it for the first time. She’d imagined herself gracefully descending down the grand staircase of the ballroom with every eye---including his---on her as she refocused all the light with her glittering gold beads. Now the vision seemed like a petty afterthought and she cursed herself for not stuffing the dress into her closet and out of sight.

“I wanted my own dress so I had one made with my colours,” she hastened to explain.

He nodded coldly, as if he already knew why. If it weren’t for the telling ice in his eyes, she would have thought he’d come for something else entirely. Instead he motioned his gaze behind him.

“Fetch me that hairbrush.”

Perplexed, Alina crossed the room, passing by his statuesque form, and grabbed the hairbrush off her vanity table. She passed the hairbrush to him but failed to hide her giggles.

“Are you going to brush my hair?”

One hand gripped the brush while his other hand flew to her wrist, his knuckles white. “No, _Alina_ , I’m not going to brush your hair.”

His voice was silky and low, lower than she’d ever heard it before. It slithered around her like a snake ready to constrict its prey. Whatever she’d done---either the dress, her episode with Eryk, or both---had gotten under his skin.

“Then what are you going to do?” she challenged, sounding more confident than she felt.

He pulled her closer to him until they were inches apart, her breath falling loudly against his chest. “I’m going to give you a lesson you won’t soon forget.”

She swallowed and instinctively tried to pull away but his grip was strong. Genya had been right: she had forgotten who she was dealing with. His hands only tightened around her as he continued to lecture her:

“You behaved ungratefully. When someone gives you a gift, all you have to do is say ‘thank you’. Instead you went behind my back to make your own arrangements. Is that how a saint behaves?”

“No,” she mumbled, feeling herself pulled deeper under his spell.

“When your punishment is over, you will return the dress. You will inform Eryk you are not attending the fete with him or anyone else. And you will wear the dress I give you. Do you understand?”

A flash of anger flared through her but when she opened her mouth to protest, she was quickly silenced by a rough fist in her hair. “Do you understand, Alina?”

“Yes, _moi soverennyi_.” She understood. It wasn’t a negotiation.

“Good. Now go lie on the bed, face down.”

Alina turned and walked over to the bed, wondering how on earth she’d let him get the upper hand again. She thought she’d been prepared this time, that his absence had given her the opportunity to assert herself. Now she was once again giving in to him. She felt stupid as she lowered herself onto the bed and sunk her face into the pillow. She still had no idea what the hairbrush was supposed to be for and couldn’t stifle her giggles.

She heard him approach slowly and then the weight of him sinking the edge of the mattress as he sat down by her feet. In one swift motion, he yanked her legs down until her bottom was securely positioned over his lap. His eyes were focused; his hands worked nimbly to push her skirts up and yank her underwear down as if he’d been planning this for weeks. Goosebumps began to run over her bare bottom in the cold air but she knew it wouldn’t be cold for long.

Alina tried to squirm away from him but he crossed a leg over both of hers to keep her in place. Then everything went silent, like the calm before a storm. She didn’t know what he had planned, only that it was going to hurt like hell. She grabbed handfuls of the bedsheet in anticipation but the minutes rolled by with nothing except the steady sound of his breathing to fill them.

One hand gently caressed her hair, tucking away loose strands. “I do this for your own good, little saint. You will thank me every time I strike you.”

Humiliation burned her cheeks but she whispered that she understood. She heard the first sting before she felt it. Her senses were suddenly acutely aware of everything. The pressure of his splayed fingers on her back. The scent of the bedsheet she’d pressed her face into. The familiar taste of copper in her mouth. Her own heavy breathing. Her voice sounded far away.

“Thank you,” she whispered, like it was a prayer.

He responded with another sharp strike. Her head felt thick and slow and it took her a while to realize he wasn’t striking her with his hand; he was striking her with the paddled back of her own hairbrush. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Given the circumstances, crying seemed more appropriate.

“Thank you.”

He increased the intensity of each strike, ignoring her when she cried out. He would stop if she asked him to because part of her punishment was taking it voluntarily. This wasn’t him beating a helpless girl for some perceived infraction. This was the both of them giving each other pleasure from pain (or was it pain from pleasure? He wasn’t sure anymore). She would be a willing participant in her own discipline. That was the only way she’d learn.

“Thank you.”

The spanking was really starting to hurt now. His hand had stung but the paddle stung harder. Tears were freely flowing and her breathing came in ragged gasps between her thanks.

He stroked her hair gently, leaning in to whisper, “Suffering builds character”, before swatting her again and again. She started to sob like a child, her entire world seemingly shrinking to the space between her inflamed bottom and the back of the hairbrush. She began to hate that brush. She vowed she’d toss in the fireplace when all this was over.

“Thank you.”

Strikes came down on the sensitive parts of her upper thighs and she wanted to scream at him to stop, that she couldn’t take it anymore as she squirmed on his lap, her sobbing turning into whining and mental cursing.

She felt his hand sink beneath her, stroking her clit gently. “Take it, little saint. Take it for me. It’s almost over.”

His words built up her resolve. She stopped squirming her legs, choosing to leave herself open to him. The pleasurable sensation of his finger softly stroking her clit mixed with the sharp savage sting of the paddle so Alina was unsure _what_ exactly she was feeling, only that it was the most intense feeling she’d ever felt in her life.

“Thank you.”

She’d meant it every time she’d said it, but now it seemed like a deeper, endless gratitude. She felt that familiar tension building inside her, threatening to overflow. It was heaven. It was hell. It was someplace in-between and no place that existed at all. When the final smack rang through the room, she cried out---in pleasure or in pain, she wasn’t sure anymore.

He let her writhe in his lap until the last of her climax subsided. She went still and quiet, like a ragdoll, content to simply be in his presence. He gently pulled her up so she was sitting on his lap but leaning against him for support, too tired and spent to hold herself up. He kissed her tears and whispered something to her in a language she didn’t understand; a phrase of affection or praise, long forgotten by the time.

Then he took the weapon he’d been using to hurt her to silently brush her hair. The effect was so calming, Alina fell asleep in his arms soon afterwards.

 

**iv.**

 

She contemplated tossing the hairbrush out for all the pain it had caused her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Some twisted part of her hoped to give the Darkling a reason to use it again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for how late this update was. I'm not sure this chapter makes up for the wait or not *creys*


	8. A Lesson in Deliverance

**i.**

 

The night before the Winter Fete was quieter than usual. Most of the Grisha were either sleeping over in each other rooms to gossip or retiring early for the long day tomorrow. The excitement in the air was palpable. After such a long and bloody war, everyone was eager for an excuse to celebrate their victories and waltz around the Grand Palace ballroom in frivolous dresses.

Invitations to the fete had gone out to Ravkan nobility all over Os Alta and a Suli travelling circus was rumoured to be their entertainment. Alina had watched little black shapes moving from one of the palace towers as they carried in large conifers caked with glistening white snow. Somehow, this fete seemed bigger than the last.

She was just about to retire early for the evening when a servant dressed in white and gold rapped on her door and handed her a black envelope. It was written in the Darkling’s hand.

A small tremor of excitement and foreboding ran down Alina’s spine as she made her way through the palace’s twisting corridors towards one of the private dining rooms. The Darkling often took his meals there with his elite Grisha or councilmen and she hoped he hadn’t planned some kind of sick entertainment for them.

But when she arrived, the large room was empty save for a select few _oprichniki_ stationed at the doors and the Darkling himself seated at the head of the table, facing away from her. She’d only ever seen the room once before in passing. It was elegantly furnished with the royal colors. Plush sofas and divans were arranged around a blazing fireplace. Beautiful rugs adored the floors and an elaborately embroidered tapestry depicting some long forgotten battle took up the entirety of the south wall. A long dining table stood to one side of the room, big enough to seat twenty.

She hadn’t made a sound when she entered, but somehow the Darkling knew she was standing there and turned his head slightly.

“Come here, Alina,” his smooth voice called. “Let me look at you.”

She gingerly edged closer to stand in front of him. She was struck again by how preternatural he seemed. When she’d been a girl, Ana Kuya had warned her that the devil wouldn’t come before her with a grotesque face and curling horns, breathing fire. No, he’d come as a seductive lover promising her everything she’d ever wanted and snatch her away in the night. That’s what she remembered then, looking at that unnatural beautiful face, carved from pale stone with storm grey eyes peering at her as if he could perceive all her thoughts, all her secrets.

She could tell the Darkling was in a good mood. His gaze was soft and a faint smile played on his lips. It couldn’t be the proximity of the Winter Fete that had influenced his mood. She suspected he’d gotten some good news, perhaps related to whatever it was he’d been hunting for all these months.

He silently patted his lap twice, indicating for her to take a seat. She turned crimson as she sneaked a look at the _oprichniki_. Of course, they were watching them. This time, however, the Darkling made no move to dismiss them.

Alina edged closer to him, feeling invisible currents of his power reaching her. She bent her knees to perch on his leg, a bit awkwardly at first, but he gripped her waist with his strong hands and inched her back until she was firmly planted on his lap, pressed up against the silk of his kefta.

She leaned into him, happy to be indulged for once, and inhaled the crisp scent of cold frost and pine forest. Something about him had always reminded her of snow-capped mountains and open winter air. There was a bite to it, an edge that could burn you if you inhaled it for too long. But then again, she was never one for easy-earned comforts.

The Darkling held her with one arm as he gathered a delicious morsel of roasted lamb. That was when Alina noticed the table in front of them was covered with platters of buttered rolls, spiced potatoes, and a whole leg of lamb that made her mouth water.

She waited for the Darkling to offer her a spoonful but he just watched her, smiling slightly, as he ate. Even the sight of his jaws moving excited her. Perhaps after he’d finished his plate, he’d offer her one? But that never happened. Once he’d finished the last bite, his smile only had more of an edge to it.

“Are you hungry, my little saint?”

“Yes.”

“Then beg. I hear saints are very good at that.”

She suppressed her humiliation and stared at her hands. “Please, can I have some food?”

“You can’t go long without meat in your mouth, can you?”

Alina didn’t know how to respond to that so she kept staring at her hands. She felt a soft yank on her hair as she was forced to look up at him.

“Can you?”

“No, I can’t.”

The Darkling seemed satisfied with that acknowledgement. He added another slice of lamb to the plate in front of him and spent the next few minutes slowly feeding her. He cut the pieces to small morsels and offered it to her on a gilded fork. She leaned forward to accept the food, feeling strangely vulnerable, as if she’d soon have to rely on him for everything: food, water, air, life.

When her hunger was finally satiated, the Darkling waved his hand for the servants to clear the table and for the _oprichniki_ to leave the room. Alina had the sneaking suspicion another lesson was in order.

“Are you familiar with _Istorii Sankt’ya_? The Lives of Saints?”

Alina recalled the Apparat had once handed her a slender red volume that had been marked with those words several months ago. She’d tossed it into the bottom of her dresser drawer and never thought about it since. After all, everyone knew of the lives of the saints. They didn’t need to read books to know how they often lived a life of poverty, celibacy and charity. No, it was their _deaths_ that usually gave the subject a macabre colouring.

“No,” she admitted. “I haven’t read it. I didn’t know you were interested in that sort of thing.”

His lips twitched a little, as if he were recalling some private joke. Honestly, the Darkling was the last person Alina could imagine reading _Istorii Sankt’ya._ The last she remembered about the dreadful book were its gruesomely illustrated pages of martyred and suffering saints: Sankt Lavrenty roasted alive, Sankta Tsetsiliya beheaded, Sankt Illya in chains…

“You would be surprised. Did you know a great number of saintly martyrs were impaled?”

She felt his fingers gently running through her hair. His voice had become quieter, barely a murmur. Alina wondered if he got off on the stories of tortured saints and shook her head.

“It’s a shame they don’t impale prisoners anymore,” he continued. “I suppose we have evolved to more ‘civilized’ methods of execution. People only have stories now, bastardized with age. They don’t know what it was like.”

Was he alive then? When they used barbaric torture? Is that what he was remembering now as he slipped his cool hands under her skirt? Her breath caught in her throat as he circled her clit with his thumb, the slickness between her legs only expanding with each stroke.

“Do you know how they would impale you, little saint?”

She only moaned in response.

“They would take a thick, long, stake and thrust it up your cunt.” He pressed his thumb hard against her and she gasped, gripping the folds of his kefta with her shaking hands. “Then they would run the stake right through you until it came out through your throat. You would be displayed, in all your glory, when they erected the stake into the ground. But that was the merciful way…”

Alina felt his hand snake under her, a single cool finger resting over her puckered hole.

“If you were very naughty, they would thrust it up the other hole.”

At the sudden pressure of his finger, she shrieked and swatted him. “Stop that!”

He laughed and withdrew his hand, eyeing the desire that was evident on her face. He gripped her throat, drawing her in.

“Tell me, little saint, are you afraid or aroused?”

It felt like some kind of test. She let out a soft whimper that sent vibrations through his hand. “Both.”

A wicked glint lighted his smokey eyes. “Then let’s practice.”

 

**ii.**

 

She certainly wasn’t an expert on the subject but part of her felt what they were doing could be considered blasphemous. It was dark and twisted but she still loved every minute of it.

After he’d ordered her to strip off her clothes, he positioned her over the arm of the sofa, face down, her bottom raised up towards him like an offering. The firelight danced off her skin, adding heat to her already rising temperature. This time, he peeled his clothes off too and Alina made sure to get a good look at him: all lean hard muscle that looked like it had been carved from white marble. A thin line of dark hair ran down the formed muscles of his abdomen, leading straight to his thick erection like a natural arrow. Her mouth watered at the sight and all she wanted to do was greedily take him in her mouth.

But he didn’t waste any time.

Her blood pulsed against the hard grip of his palms, his teeth sank into her soft neck, and she savoured the delicious rhythm of pain as he savagely thrust into her. She could feel herself rising, up, up, up, like a bird streaking through clear sky. Sooner of later, she’d feel the drop in her stomach as he took her there.

He gripped the back of her neck and forced her down as he continued his brutal pace. She felt there was something equally sinful and sacred in the melding of their flesh: his hard, muscled cock impaling her soft, wet entrance over and over again. It was almost like a sort of poetry, if the poets were ever vulgar.

He pulled out of her, breathing hard. Beads of sweat ran down his lean chest and locks of hair were stuck to his forehead. She’d never seen him so dishevelled and she wasn’t sure once would be enough. He pulled her to her feet and took her hand, leading her to the centre of the couch.

Sitting down in the middle, he made the same gesture he’d made earlier: two taps on the lap. This time, she knew he wasn’t just asking for her to sit down. By the growing smirk on his face, she knew what wickedness he desired now and she hated herself for wanting desperately to oblige him.

All shyness was cast aside as she turned around to face the fire and slowly spread her legs over his lap, hovering over his erection. His rough hands came around her hips, his fingernails digging into her skin. She felt the tip of him brush against her slick entrance before slowly lowering herself, impaling herself, onto him. Alina didn’t even get half a second to savour the full sensation before she felt him pound away into her.

He took hold of her forearms, holding them back so she wouldn’t pleasure herself.

“This is what it would be like, _Sankta_ ,” he cooed, a mocking edge to his words. “Impaled and exposed for all the world to see. There would be no hiding what you are.”

Through the thrusts that shook her body, Alina’s eyes caught sight of the fire roaring before them. She imagined they were faces instead, faces of people she knew, people shocked and horrified. It only spurred her on.

She leaned back, resting her neck against him, giving him better access to run his hands over her writhing body and whisper more blasphemy in her ear. His fingers reached down and pleasured her clit, bringing her closer and closer to release.

“Please, please…” she begged.

His fingers circled her, agonizingly slow. “What are you begging for?”

“Deliverance.”

She felt him smile against her cheek as he kneaded her harder, finally releasing a current of pleasure that shot through her whole being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yeah, I've gotten to the point where I'm not even sorry for the blasphemous nature of this chapter ψ(｀∇´)ψ  
>  A million apologies for how long it took me to update! Did I really post the last chapter back in February? Someone should spank me (¬‿¬)


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